


Red Means Dead

by antifalockhart



Category: Promare (2019)
Genre: Action, Bootlegging, Disguise, Gen, Gen Work, Motorcycles, Paperboy Lio Fotia, Pre-Canon, Speaking in Code, Vehicles, fuck 12, there is like one swear word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26952940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antifalockhart/pseuds/antifalockhart
Summary: A typical work day for Burnish paperboy Lio...This fic includes:-Lio "stickyfingers" Fotia-A Crazy Motorcycle Chase-Work Politics-West Virginia-Amphibians made of fire-Curmudgeon uncle
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Red Means Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Promezine](https://prome-zine.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I also drew the poster
> 
> Lio is a minor in this and I will not tolerate anything untoward in the comments section

On a clear November night, the moon shone brightly over the hills and washed them in, what God intended, pure white light. However, marked by the sound of a bellow and a crack, followed by the din of fire, came a plume of hellfire in a hue no Earthen chemistry could create. A trail of fire skimmed down the mountain like a comet down the skyline and in its wake came ashes rather than dust. The final telltale was the throttle of an engine from a rare, diesel-eating beast. Around these parts these were all a sure sign of an angel to some and a hellion to others. It was a blazerunner. And a young one at that.

The three tenets of blazerunners were simple in theory and preposterous in practice. Rule one was to keep your silhouette hidden on the ridges of the hills, and the roads that wrap them like a dozing timber rattlesnake, from the rays of the moon. Burning brightly, boldly and proudly may be your lease on life if you’re cut from the common candle wick, but in the bootlegging business it could instead melt your wax. Unfortunately for young Lio Fotia, he had a flame that shines brighter than Ursa Major on a clear West Virginian night, much like this one. 

The other two rules were a tad easier for this runner to follow. Rule two was to protect one’s identity at any and all costs--so and so could be identified with such and such, and one match alighting suddenly becomes two hundred depending on proximity. For Lio, it was doable with a change of clothes and some clever pitches in voice. Rule three wasn’t so much as a rule as a requirement: no baggage, no business. The fire that follows runners’ heels should not be brought to the matchbox. All the intricacies and ways of Lio’s people were usually for the good of the community; and, more often than not, he was happy to oblige them. 

“Get back here, torchy, and we’ll show you a _real_ fire!” echoed from the speakers of a police car, lights flashing dimly compared to the inferno, which drowned the sirens with its roaring. Tonight, however, Lio was cursing a limitation common amongst all intercommunal Burnish relations: no one tells him a damn thing anymore. 

The revenuers, or the Snuff, as referred to by fellow fiery folk, were sure looking to catch a star that night. Lio decided the twelve miles these wet blankets were trailing him was enough. 

About two banks more and a clandestine path--a trade secret amongst the blazerunners--will provide Lio an escape. Although there were risks with this particular move: Lio takes the path and it becomes unusable, which could incur the wrath of his coworkers; Lio takes the path, doesn’t slow down in time, and careens into the ravine at the end of the trail: he loses his bike, his cargo and his pride in one go; Lio doesn’t take the path, and probably gains more friends for another fifteen miles. In all the wisdom a fifteen-year old has, Lio decided his first instinct was his best instinct and turned sharply into the woods right before the second bank, leaving smoldering brush and an echo of car meeting guardrail in his wake. 

Five seconds later and no lights followed, but relief was caught in his throat when two pairs of glowing eyes burst open behind him. Two ATVs were now on his trail, the frontrunner bumping the ass of his bike and causing him to lurch to the left. Like a moth to a flame. They’re getting smarter. 

Lio could ignite something from about seventy-seven meters away on a good day--he hoped today was going to be really, really good. Materializing carbon from the air with temperatures hotter than hell and reshaping it into graphene took either immense power or years of practice--usually both. For Lio, it’s been two years of conscious practice and nine years of being the most powerful human being within a five-hundred-mile radius. 

One hundred meters left, and only twenty to start slowing down. The two pursuers dropped out of the game of chicken and started firing--traditional munitions were popular here because they could bust tires wide open and stop a perp in their tracks. It’s really too bad for them Lio added plating to his tires. A little (melt-able) bullet never hurt a Burnish, either. 

The moment of truth was coming, and Lio poured all his concentration in constructing a ramp that would give him enough verticality to bridge the gap. He could feel the ramp distenegrate beneath him as rubber kissed shining graphene.

When the bike reached the zenith of its jump across the gaping maw, Lio sparked the internal combustion engine of the cycle, purple and cyan sparks spewing from the exhaust and propelling him just enough to close the gap. Lio broke rule number one with flair to spare: figure silhouetted against the brilliant white moon like an old movie poster. Unfortunately, his landing was less picturesque.

▲▲▲

“You got Fortuna menthols, 100s?” _I am Lio Fotia. I’m here for all the Glyburide you have back there._

“Lemme check in the back, ma’am; did ya need somethin’ else?” 

“Yeah, my matchbox is soggy. Got a spare?” _Snuff has been around the area, please be discreet._

“Gotcha. Bathroom’s past the wine fridge, ya need a thing just holler,” and the cashier made her way to the back of the trading post--a repurposed Sheetz. 

Lio cleared his throat and tugged his red bandana up; the perfect disguise when ash lingered in the air here and flameless humans sport far weirder get ups because of it. Plus, the bandana hid the childish chub in his cheeks but allowed the dark circles under his eyes to augment the affectation of “roughly thirty year-old women who smoked since she was eight years old.” 

Lio acted natural and made sure to grab a Twinkie. He heard the bell ring but did not turn around; he felt the flame in his heart sputter when he saw two cops in the security mirror. Once in the bathroom, he locked the door and started the faucet. 

“Shit.” 

▲▲▲

Front tire landing cockeyed, the contraption slipped out from Lio’s center of gravity. He tumbled, thankfully, further out of the sights of the snuff and not into the abyssal ravine. 

The relief was short lived, however, as ice bullets began to rain down on him; immobilization is certain death. Scrambling, he dashed into the tree line and was again upended by a tree root and sent further, whipped by branches, scraped beyond reason. Lio tucked his head in as he rolled farther; he really didn’t want to find out if flames could stitch a snapped brainstem back together. Finally, the decline ended--he felt dizzy, probably had a sprained ankle, and left a trail of fire about twenty meters long. Lio laid prone, letting the fires lick at his scrapes and revealed in the bell-like voices chiming in his head, delighted at the display of pyrotechnics that just went down.

After a tick, he trekked up the hill where he crashed, confiding to the fire’s voices that he hoped his bike and all the contents hidden in its shock-absorbing compartments survived. Luckily, only a couple glass bottles of cough syrup busted, and not the insulin and hormones--nothing that any Burnish couldn’t live without. 

Now he could check the condition of his bike, salvaged and homemade parts Frankensteined together with some good ol’ fashioned Burnish welding technique. Lio knew he was far too young to be a parent, but Nefyn was his firstborn baby and he loved her as such. She even won him a few drag races, though after tonight he realized she’ll need modifications. After taking off his riding gloves, he ran his fingers over any cracks on Nefyn’s frame, sealing them back together with plasma and occasionally filling a few gaps.

Once he got comfy, and turned on his radio transmitter and receiver, he tore into his Twinkie. 

“Let’s see… frequency… indigo and… yellow…?” Lio changed the colors of the flame on his fingertips to match the ones on the tip of the walkie's antenna until the buzzing static became clear. 

“Mez? Mez? Are you there?”

“Kid, how many times do I have to drill into that blond head of yours that you wait for me to say ‘10-20, officer?’ you give me your location, and _then_ I give you the 10-4?” Hermez, the Blue Ridge Burnish’s dispatcher, seemed in a good mood, especially because he didn’t make Lio try again. 

“Rendezvous is compromised, I’m about thirteen clicks East,”

“Not surprised, Fotia,” he drawled, “Any letters for me?”

“If you count a summons from Appalachia Trade Network as a letter, sure,” the radio started buzzing, and Lio reignited his fingers to see the frequency slip into a blush pink. He hoped Mez would give him a new rendezvous within the next two hours, “So I hope you know nobody reported that the White Lightning byway was iced out. There’s about six cops out for me right now ‘cross the ravine. This might be the third time this month I had to take an emergency exit.” 

“Alright, ya kindling. I get it; you need the paths ‘cause yuh can’t be assed to lay low a li’l. I’ll have a pinch runner heading for Cheat Bridge. Recognize it? Go, burn up that road; it’s the usual all clear and then you can bring me that letter. Don’t keep her waiting. You have an hour. Capiche?”

“10-4,”

“That’s the spirit.” 

▲▲▲

Lio took to the banks of the turnpike like a black racer, weaving between the double lanes that hugged the sides of the mountains. At least his meetup wasn’t in the belly of the beast in the hollows at the nadir; Mez was ultimately a soft ember in a trade full of roaring blazes. There was plenty of coverage in the form of the Cheat. The steam that rises from the river camouflages the steamiest of Burnish on cold nights. 

Air thickened from condensation and the lowering altitude. As Lio killed his engine and began his coast down toward Shaver’s Fork, his ears crackled. Lio and his Nefyn took a stroll to the treeline in the Mohongonela, the decrepit Cheat Bridge still standing despite the blight brought by the Blaze--Lio swore he could see it sway slightly to and fro. 

Punctuality was a fortune Lio had trouble coming across in his line of work. Planting himself on a rotted yet comfy fallen tree trunk, Lio took to watching the visage of the full moon ripple in the river. Much like the fire that churns in the pit of his being, the water was forever at the mercy of an unseen force, continuing its eternal undulations until every single molecule of hydrogen evaporated when the world--in all likelihood--meets its fiery end. 

After a quarter of an hour, Lio encountered something fiery at his own end. Expecting a small woodland creature, Lio locked eyes with a bright red salamander shimmering and pulsing at its edges. Every Burnish in these parts knew; red burns from lead and makes you dead. Quickly, he hit the forest floor and confined the flaming creature to his chest, the soft chiming voices of the flames soothing him. Eventually, the construct burned orange to yellow and in its time to blue. 

Lio let the will-o-the-wisp lead him to a moonlit rendezvous on the rickety bridge. There stood a woman with salt and pepper hair, riding goggles hanging round her neck and a scowl on her face. The woman dismissed her familiar, and a shrill sigh followed the disintegration of the construct.

“As I live and breath fire, can you even reach the pedals of a pickup truck? Mez loses his common sense more and more each day, now don’t he?” The woman smiled, revealing a gap in her smile and a glimmer of a silvery tooth. 

“I don’t need to reach anything ‘sides the handlebars, ma’am,” Lio dealt with the old hats regularly and grew a hide thicker than this woman’s leather jacket; sticking to business was Lio’s best tactic. Maybe when he had this woman’s job he could heckle some poor kid into sticking to the hearth and home, “I made sure I could when I built her myself,” the woman’s dark--almost black--eyes sparkled.

“A smithy, eh? You have any experience in dental?” She appraised the stitching on the little bike, kicking the plated front tire. Lio heard a crack and barely registered Nefyn tumbling into the river below, her jiffy stand cracked and obviously out of a job. Lio gawked at the woman.

“Ope, sorry kid. Name’s Iz, let’s get your ride.”

▲▲▲

Pants rolled up to the knees, and jacket, hankie and boots hidden in the foliage, Lio and Iz tugged little Nefyn from the clutches of the Cheat’s depths. If Lio wasn’t contemplating installing modifications earlier, he certainly was now. With about three meters to drag his craft to shore left, torchlight bathed the river in yellow light. 

“Please tell me that’s you, kid,” Iz whispered.

“Freeze! Hands in the river!” Through the steam Lio could see the headlights of a police car. With a headlight busted, to his own credit, “make any moves outta step and you’re legally Burnish for the night! Now turn around and get your asses to the bank,” Lio glanced to Iz, whose eyes flitted to his in--uh, oh--panic. Lio gave what he hoped was a subtle nod and began to turn slowly.

“Why are you here in the middle of a freezing river in the middle of the night? You Burnish playin’ some kinda new game?” Lio turned to meet the barrel of a cryogun, aimed right in the middle of his forehead. Probably, Lio thought, the absolute worst place to aim a gun at a Burnish. So this man thought they’re plain folk? Lio tried to mask his bewilderment as shuddering from the cold. Before Iz could get a word in, Lio spoke up and said something he remembered from long long ago:

“My chooar-eye'n troy'n chooerr-oo oorth chooar-eye efo tarn,” 

“Excuse me?”

“Dw i'm yn gwybod!” Lio gesticulated, and Iz thankfully caught on to the charades, “"Tri chysir henaint: tân, te a thybaco!”

“Did you say you need a smoke?” 

“Naci!” 

“I don’t have time for you! I’m on the trail of a Burnish suspect. Can you tell me if you’ve seen a short person, round five-foot flat, brown jacket, and obviously from this country?” Lio shook his head. The snuffman sighed. 

“Fine, but you better be on the lookout, kid and… gramma,” and Iz scowled with her silver tooth. With a sigh, he spoke through his walkie and whipped around to return to his cruiser. Lio could hardly believe his luck. When the cop turned around, Iz commanded a flame to her hand. Lio put his hand over it to snuff it. 

"Dod yn ôl at fy nghoed!” 

“What’s with all that, kid?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this fic and missed the zine please consider donating to my city's bail fund: [Columbus Freedom Fund](https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/columbusfreedomfund)
> 
> Lio isn't fluent in Welsh but knows some sayings as code


End file.
